Mein Kampf
by boombangZOOM
Summary: Dante is a nazi, and Nero a Jew. What could possibly go wrong?
1. Prologue

**Summary: Dante is a Nazi, and Nero a Jew. What could possibly go wrong?**

**I have returned! My one and a half year rest is complete and I am prepared to start yet another session of weekly updates onto fanfiction. n_u**

**for those of you who were fond of Night Road . . . sorry, but i've discontinued it. That fanfiction truly just had no plot and no hope for the future. Again, I apologise, but I'd rather put effort into something that will come through in the end.**

**Pushing that aside, you should all be aware that this fanfiction will not be, for the most part, humorous or cuddly or cute or funny. Of course, there will be moments (I believe all written work should have a laugh at least _somewhere_), but the majority is indeed serious due to the fact that most of this plot encircles around the horrors of concentration camps and mass murders and etc etc. So if you have a weak heart and cannot take tragedy, I recommend you hit the back button. :|**

**I suppose I should also add that this is not, in any way, meant to offend Jews or Germans. This fanfiction takes place around the 1940s – about the time the holocaust took place. I'm not trying to imply that any of the actions that take place in this fanfic is the usual behaviour of either ethnic groups, alright? To keep my slate as clean as possible, I'm going to try and keep the events as close to those that took place in reality. Some situations I will wing, though.**

**Oh, and how could I have forgotten the most important detail . . . Duerherherm. This fanfiction is incredibly AU. I will try my very hardest to keep Dante and Nero in person as much as possible, I will assure. n_n But given their horrific circumstance, this wont always be possible . .**

**Anyway! Enough with all my blabber! n_n**

**Carry on~**

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><p>A light switch is flicked and a bulb above weakly flickers to life. The thing is old, dirty. Worn out from years of illuminating hopeless faces and tired eyes. A man running a calloused hand through disheveled hair settles beneath it and reaches out to open the dusty bathroom mirror. Rows of medicine bottles are revealed. He reaches out and selects a couple at random, not even bothering to read the labels anymore.<p>

The informational stickers on the things have been worn down to a dirty brown after months of been knocked back with dirty hands, tossed into bags, kept in war jackets and repeated.

Pale fingers unscrew the tops and remove several capsules from each. For but a moment, blue eyes remain on the shelves, distant, before the pile of pills stacked in his hand are knocked back against his lips and are ingested with only his saliva to help them down.

There is the initial gag, yes. He is used to that. But after screwing his eyes shut and clasping rough fingers on the edge of the sink and swallowing hard, _hard_ – willing the mouthful down – there is the familiar sensation of a lump of small ovals traveling down his throat, and the man loosens his grip on cracked porcelain.

Shutting the mirror, Dante looks himself in the eye. Even with the notable layer of dust that has settled onto the object of his reflection, there is no hiding emptiness in his expression. He isn't sure if he wants to. Aware of the fact that he will have to be out and about in the bitter November air in but a few moments, he leaves his reflection alone and begins to undress.

Cool air slips between his thighs as his pyjama pants are removed and replaced with the pressed, black fabric of his trousers. Next are the leather boots which have still not yet completely molded to his feet and leave him walking with awkward lumps beneath his soles. When the thin fabric of his t-shirt (which had failed miserably to insulate heat over the night) is pulled over his head, Dante grabs his coat, then pauses. Glancing back at his reflection, he runs cold fingers over the Swastika symbol tattooed onto his right breast.

Suddenly the door to his small room is thrust open and a harsh voice calls, "was machst du, sheibe kopf! What are you doing, shit head!" Dante is just pulling on his coat when his Nazi comrade stomps over to the door frame. Without looking, the man can already tell Anton is fuming. Being new to the organisation – even newer than Dante – it is expected that he be a little more...lively than the rest when it came to occasions such as those today. That, or slightly more frightened. "Hurry the fuck up!" he continues, "Everyone is already outside!"

The young man, not even the height of Dante's shoulder, stomps away with his leather boot squeaking before the other could even wave him off.

Dante wasn't really sure if it was the desire to get this over with or seriousness of the situation that had him out on the dew-ridden lawn less than a few minutes later. It was four o' clock in this small Jewish ghetto in Venice, Italy. As expected of this time of day, it was black out. Black save for the few streetlights that scared the night stars away. Through Dante's eyes, the edges of everything seemed fuzzy and smoothed out. The softening of the world around him was a sign that the pills had finally dissolved and numbed his brain until all worries sure to come were pushed off to the edges until they were out of his line of sight.

Before him, the object of what would have become his previous concern was revealed.

A line of Jews were being situated before the sidewalk. For every four or five heads of dark hair, there was a blonde patrolling them with hard ebony coats and red swastika symbols on their arms. "Hande hoch!" Commander, a man clad in murky green rather than black, ordered the alignment of Jews who quickly complied and placed trembling hands behind their heads. Nazi soldiers positioning their rifles in unison in case of any rebels.

Dante watched with hands stuffed in his pockets as the Jews were ordered to bend over and bite down on the concrete. Anton watched with amusement as a general started towards the end of the line and placed a teasing foot on the head of a brunette.

The sound of her begs, muffled my concrete, stained the night air. Commander cooed at her, lifting the metal of his boot as if he would let her go, only to crush her skull with a sickening _crack_ a second later.

The story repeated itself with the next Jew, and the next Jew, and the next, as panic within the prisoners quickly began to arise. Commander soon grew tired of his taunting and summoned a rhythm of foot up, foot down, _smash_, sidestep, foot up, foot down, _smash_, sidestep, with their dread only fueling his smirk as his teeth bared in the cold night air.

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><p><strong>That was disgustingly short, I'm aware. The last few paragraphs are pathetically underdetailed, but my lazy beta refused to help me improve them! <strong>**ヽ****; A ;**

**Just kidding, I love her. Anyways, if you have any idea as to how to help me improve this (As in the posted content, not the plot . . . which isn't even greatly revealed by this) just let me know, and I'll be more than happy to assign you the credit!**

**But yeah! I just wanted to get this short little prologue out before I got lazy and gave up on this before it made it to fanfiction. And . . . yes. That happens very often.**

**Unless my ap teachers decide to randomly pound me down with homework (and they seem to have a fetish for this), updates should be frequent given the fact that I have a majority of the next several chapters worked out.**

**But enough blab. Good night for now~ but remember! Feedback provides inspiration! n_n**


	2. Chapter 1

**I have finally come to accept the fact that I am quite pathetic when it comes to updating. Feel free to throw tomatoes at me, or give me the silent treatment, or flame me until I'm little more than a piece of fried bacon, because I really do deserve it. I'm actually considering hiring someone to perster me every day about all of these fanfictions that I've started, but quickly became too much of a lazy-ass to put effort into them after the first couple chapters. Again, I'm sorry, and feel free to punch me in the chin or something if that's what makes you feel better. u_u**

**Things you'll need to know: General Hosh and Bernd are the same person. His name is Bernd Hosh...so you know, _General_ Hosh...**

**yeah.**

**Angelo is Nero's last name**

_**I only know a few words in German, so most phrases are going to be from google translate. If you speak German and are willing to help, just drop me a p.m. and I'll kiss you for eternity.**_

***One last important note* I changed the p.o.v. up a bit. Inspired by _The Book Thief_, this story is going to be written through death's point of view. The writing style is also a hell of a lot different from how a used to write, but this is literally just how I type now. idk**

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><p>"What the hell is this?"<p>

The woman said nothing. She fumbled excessively with her hands, as if hoping that the sound of skin on skin would fill the deafening silence between her form and the masculine one a mere few feet away from her. Pink lips quivered, but no words came. Nothing but the dripping of the tap filled the small bathroom where the two humans stood. She would have given anything in the world to be able to say something, anything, to fill the microscopic space between them – provide some sort of barrier, whether it be tangible or not.

Oh, why did he have to be so close! Such a threat, such a danger! And yet there he stood at a distance that could be closed with only a few steps. There was nothing to protect her. Only air and white walls.

Plop, plop, plop; the dribble kept the time, it broke the quiet into intervals. No more manageable than if it were to be taken as a whole, mind you. If anything at all, it gave you a sense of dread, paranoia. Why did it have to be so loud, so demanding? It was as if it wanted all to recognise it's presence, to acknowledge that your fate, ultimately, rested in it's hands.

_But that doesn't make sense._

Or does it? The tap keeps time. It is time. What will happen two drops from now? Will the woman still be standing? Would the man have beaten her down by then, bashed in her skull? What about five taps later? Six, seven, eight? Tap, tap, tap, she would be dead for all we know. The man could have cut her open by then, scooped her blood into his palms and decided that the room needed a bit of repainting.

Please tell me you've wrapped your head around that.

Plop, plop, plop.

Because I am afraid we don't have much time left.

The walls seemed to glow and leer forward in excitement as the man breathed harshly. They watched as one. They had the first row seats, they expected a show. As he leaned forward, it was as if everything around them held their breath in anticipation, every last atom in the tile, the tub, the air. Everything was still as he exhaled all over Kyrie's pretty, _Jewish_ face. "Well!" He demanded, and the room almost seemed to tremble with elation.

His nostrils were flared. Kyrie dropped her head, turning away. The vast, red face inches from her own was contorted with such hated that it looked inhuman. However, please, do not think that the girl is the only human in the room. Both occupants in the white room were just as human as the next man, able to breathe and bleed, with a coursing heart in their chest that enables them to do these things.

So why, I beg you, do some treat others so _horribly?_

Kyrie hardly felt the hand that struck her across the face. What she did feel, however, was the side of her head collide against the wall. In no time it all, it was throbbing, and oh, how it _throbbed_. It was as if there were several hammers within her skull, all attempting to bash their way out at once. Only, unfortunately for Kyrie, there were no tools within her head, and it would not be exploding any time soon. What she was experiencing were the effects of a cracked skull.

She slumped to the floor. The silence dared her to touch her wounds.

But she was a smart girl.

Her hands trembled on her knees before her as the standing man kneeled. A pair of hard-pressed pants, a bare torso. When finally level with her, his features were as white and expressionless as a sheet of paper.

"Do you know why," he began, cold blue eyes boring holes into her murky brown ones. "I have hit you?"

The calmness of his voice placed her at an even more, if possible, intense unease. That tone could only mean one thing. It only ever did. Kyrie began to tremble and shake like a leaf. Her teeth chattered to the point where she could not talk. The man shushed her, running a hand colder than ice, rougher than granite, up and down her cheek.

His blonde hair shone a goldish hue in the silver light pouring in through the window. Like an angel.

Kyrie was quivering harder than ever. She could feel the vomit rising in her esophagus, but still forced herself to speak. "B-B-Be...c-cause..." Her words were wet and slippery, falling from a dry mouth and onto her lap. "it's my..." gulp of air, a big one. It soared down her throat and into her belly. "j-job to clean bathroom, s-s-sir, and I-"

When the head of gold hair began to shake in disapproval, she couldn't hold it any longer. Kyrie leaned to her left and spilled sick onto the floor. Hilarious how Bernd does not mind this, yet he beats her for failing to remove a stain.

A series of wet slapping noises fill the room. Some were louder than others, some were small and interrupted by convulses. Bernd only watches her with his pair of bored, blue eyes, one of his many characteristics that makes one question his humanity. How is it possible to own a pair of orbs such as his – an azure so liquified, that one can't help but want to kick off their shoes and swim in them upon eye contact. Yet, as beautiful as they were, there was a trait within them – one that I carried his soul away without discovering myself – that provided his gaze with an indescribable sharpness, as if knives lay hidden in each pupil.

The oceans appear lovely, yes. But go in too deep and the sharks will rip off your limbs. Crunch on your bones.

By the time Kyrie's finished, the man is sitting cross-legged, chin in hand, elbow on knee. He looked ready to punch her, he was so bored. "_Was? _Are you done?" When Kyrie gave a weak nod, he rose to his feet. The room absolutely reeked now, left in several-times worse a state than it had been in before Bernd had arrived. He cocked his head as he stared down at her, the helpless Jewish girl who was still on all fours with vomit seeping between her fingers.

"Stand," he ordered.

Even at full-height, the top of Kyrie's head just barely grazed his shoulder. She didn't dare look at him, only kept her head down – hidden behind the mess of her straggly brown hair. This tactic didn't work for long, however. Fingers were soon grasping her chin and lifting it, giving the man a perfect view of her manhandled face in the silvery light. White fingertips grazed the yellowing bruises where her head hit the wall, the raging welts and burning hand-mark where Bernd had struck her. "You look like shit," he muttered, trailing her newly-additioned flaws with the flesh of his thumb, the back of his knuckles. "You should work on that."

And then his nose was pressed to hers, inhaling her breath. Kyrie flinched, instinctively, but did not dare move away. The fingers that were once teasingly tracing are now cupping her assaulted cheeks, holding her in place. She could smell his breath, which stunk of alcohol, see into his eyes, which forced daggers into her own. Kyrie could just hear him mutter an insult in German before he grazed his lips over her's.

"General Hoch."

Bernd whipped around, turning so quickly and abruptly that he actually managed to strike Kyrie's nose with the back of his head. The sigh of relief that left his form had the execution of a man who had been holding his breath for ages and was now finally releasing it. He placed his hands on his hips, unable to help the smile that split across his features. "Soldier Angelo," he laughed, still not quite able to contain his moment of overwhelming alleviation. Oh, how _different_ his stature would be if anyone else were to come through the door. Bernd made a mental note to lock doors whenever he made check-ups on Kyrie. "You frightened me."

Nero stood in the doorway with a look that was half astonishment, half disgust. "What were you doing to her?" he demanded, completely ignoring his general's previous statement, completely forgetting the _authority_ of man before him.

Bernd laughed. The sound was small, part scoff, actually, but it was the way it sounded in _this particula_r room that stirred the disgust in the pit of Nero's stomach. It bounced off of the walls, reverberated from the vomit-stained floor. It made Kyrie cringe, who Nero now noticed seemed to be cowering slightly behind Bernd's back. He kept his eyes locked on her as his General began to speak: "What I do with my maids does not concern you."

Nero's grip on his sniper tightened. He had forgotten it was there, but oh, _oh_ how aware he was of it now. Knowledgeable of how it functions, how to aim, how to shoot. How to get them right through the skull. "That's my sister." He said through gritted teeth, more than aware of how General Hosh treated his women. Vulgar images of his little Kyrie taking part in lurid positions and activities made his blood boil from his torso, to his neck, and to his head. The teen was practically seeing red when a ray of light from the window beside him caught on a particularly nasty bruise on his sister's cheek. "What the hell is that!" He ordered, addressing the swelling lump.

He knew he was getting loud, and more than aware that he was only going to get louder, but this was his fucking sister! He used to push her on swings, wipe away her tears when she scraped her knee!

"Angelo," Bernd began in a tone that suggested he was speaking to a child. "If I wanted your sister dead, believe me I would have made it so by now. Please don't give me a reason to change my mind about a Jew living in my home."

Nero could feel his fingers flexing on the handle. No doubt, he was contemplating killing General Hosh right now. This fact was quite obvious, really. Both Kyrie and Bernd were well aware, it was so clearly scribbled on his form. It could quite easily be arranged, as well – within the next five seconds if he wished it so. But then there was the issue of taking hold of Kyrie and leading her out of his mansion without suspicions being arose. Nero was not the only soldier stationed at this labour camp. As a matter of fact, the situation was quite the opposite. He highly doubted he'd be able to make it to the ground floor without having to confront at least three.

Nero heaved air into his lungs, exhaled.

The attempt would be in vain. Lowering the weapon he hadn't realised he had begun to lift, Nero locked his own cerulean eyes onto those of his counterpart."Yes, sir," he murmured, words numb in the air.

Bernd's smile faltered into a flat line. His eyes, icier than ever, remained locked on Nero as he advanced toward him. "Good," he muttered, placing an approving pat on his shoulder. From there he proceeded to guide the teen toward the door, paying extra attention to position his body in order for Kyrie's figure to be blocked, bruises unnoticed, from her protective brother.

**Time: 10:35 P.M.**

**Date: 10/31/1942**

**Incidents:**

_***An obsession**_

_***A confession**_

_***And a bleeding tongue**_

Being a dinner party, there were people. They sat in chairs, they sat at tables. They stood sipping champagne, they leaned against walls and talked. The women were blonde and laughed with smiles that were all white teeth. The men would chuckle and try and retrieve the alcohol from their wives, claiming that they have had too much. They danced and appraised General Hosh and had a drink and appraised General Hosh. This get-together was all about him, anyways, him and his succession at running a Jewish labour camp.

They didn't see it through this perspective – damn it, most humans never do – but they were celebrating his ability to mercilessly work a human to their limit, with death as their only other option. Only these Germans did not notice this, or at least chose to pay it no mind. They told each other they were throwing a bash for the amount of output, how many bombshells or bullets or gunpowder he managed to produce. For them, it was all about the product.

_What suffering?_ They would ask you. _What children mourning over their dead mothers or brothers or aunts and uncles, who were shot before their eyes for taking a moment to catch their breath?_

Interesting how they, humans, cared more for inanimate objects than they did for their own kind.

Nero was standing on the balcony, leaning heavily on the ledge. His eyes were fixated on the glass cup between his fingers as he swirled the alcohol within around and around, glaring at it's contents as if he could blame it for the bartender's not allowing him another drink. 'Soldier's have a limit,' he said. 'You need to be sober for your duties,' _he said._ Pressing the rim of the glass to his lips, he downed the remainder and let the cup slip from his grasp over the ledge, heard it tinkle as it crashed it's way down to the first floor.

He didn't know why he had come here. Not to the party – that was mandatory for soldiers – but to the balcony. Here he was allowed a perfect view of the shabby quarters in which the Jewish workers must reside, just about the last thing he wanted to focus on at the moment. He didn't want to think of how he should be down there with them, too. Both he and Kyrie. He didn't want to think of how much hatred they probably have generated towards him, towards anyone in this mansion for that matter.

God damn it, he didn't want to think of how it was his own fucking people suffering in ways a human soul should not have to suffer, and the only reason he avoided the same is because of the facial features he acquired from his mother...

Nero made a reach for the glass that he had already cast over the balcony, only to glare at his fingers when they closed in on open space. Heaving a sigh, Nero tore his eyes from the squat, shabby settlements where miserable souls were settling down for the night, only to awake for another round of suffering come morning...

"Ah, there's the boy." Nero glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the door leading to the kitchens fly open. Out of the warm, yellow light stepped a man in a hard-pressed blazer whom the teen had never seem before. (Nero assumed him to be the owner of the foreign voice) Around his neck was the arm of Bernd, who was clutching yet another bottle of spirits.

"Nero, there you are!" Bernd chuckled, taking another swing and leading the unknown man in Nero's direction. The teen couldn't help but feel extremely uncomfortable, whether it be from just how obviously _drunk_ his general was, or the way his companion seemed to be staring at him with a look of such intense interest...

"General Hosh," he greeted in response, eying the duo with caution.

"Ah, relax m'boy! Have another drink!" Bernd offered him the rim of velvet-coloured bottle only to be politely declined by the teen. Shrugging, he pressed it to his own lips and took a few more gulps before seating himself – quite ungracefully – onto one of the few benches the balcony has to offer. Bernd's companion followed suit only, being at least twice as sober, with far more etiquette.

Nero could still feel the man's fascinated eyes boring onto his features when Bernd spoke again: "Carsten has been asking many questions about you," he began, his last words slightly muffled as he made to lit a cigar. "mostly about your aiming abilities, of course. He is most impressed."

Generally when someone is impressed with you, a person tends to feel satisfaction – a warm sensation that springs to life in one's chest, or even their cheeks. Only Nero felt nothing of the sort towards Bernd's words. If anything he was experiencing the exact opposite, as if a bucket of ice somewhere near his heart had been tipped over and was now spilling down and throughout his body. Making him cold, bitter. "Thank you, sir," he said, because he had to say something.

"What are you doing out here, anyway? The party is inside," Bernd declared in an exasperated tone, not seeming at all to notice just how tense of a topic they were on just two seconds ago, how it is what Nero must do as an _occupation_ at this camp that keeps him up into the late hours of night. "I don't know why you would want to look at those shit houses anyway," he chuckled, glancing at the hard-pressed man, who chuckled back, who turned to Nero, who's face was blank.

"They're not houses," he muttered before he realised what he was doing. And before he could stop himself, more words were spilling from his lips, as if their laughter and nonchalance of this all had finally broken the dam somewhere behind his tongue. Now he had sprung a leak. "Don't call them that, because that isn't what they live in."

The crack was extending. Words were gushing into his mouth, but his teeth were shut. His lips were closed. Nero's previous outburst was still floating in the air, tapping their foreheads. Taunting them. He hadn't intended for them to do that, but as memories from his previous trips to the hellholes in which the Jews were forced to reside, Nero could honestly say he didn't regret it. Let his declarations cut their faces and sear into their brains. He'll do it politely, too. He'll bend the sentences and mold them, that way the knives will be hidden.

"What do you mean, they are not houses?" The voice that touched him was one he was not familiar with – Carsten's. Again, Nero was forcefully reminded of the man's intent gaze on his form.

"What I mean is," Nero began, allowing a soft, gentle flow through his lips. "would you ever willingly live in a place like that? If you had the choice?"

A shaft of yellow light from the window cast itself across Carsten's features. One eye a bright green, intent and focused on Nero; the other shrouded in shadow. "No," he said. "No, I would not."

A hole in the dam. Chunks of concrete were crashing, giving way to a surging river. "You don't consider that a home." Nero's eyes were cold - a block of ice in each socket. "Why should anyone else have to?"

"My dear boy," Carsten murmured, sitting upright and crossing his arms. "Jews are not people. They do not count."

**"The crack was extending.**

**Words were gushing into his mouth,**

**but his teeth were shut.**

**His lips were closed."**

Imagine being slapped in the face. Now, imagine being forced to smile afterward, otherwise you're strange. You would be a weird man for not agreeing with the words that were striking you with knives, so you're forced to nod. Go along with it. Slap, slap, slap - over and over. Nero stood there and took it as the men talked about some of this, some of that. When Carsten recommended cutting the Jew's food rations, Bernd agreed. When they turned to Nero, he agreed. He said what they wanted him to say, and his tongue was bleeding.

Bernd had not lied. Carsten did seem to have an interest with Nero - if it should even be called that. The word obsession, rather, seemed to fit the man best. The teen's ability to nail a human between the eyes from four hundred yards away seemed to blow his mind to the stars and back. He leaned forward, all black suit and tie, and requested tales. Neither seemed to notice Nero's obvious discomfort as Bernd puffed smoke from his cigar and energetically complied, going about in excessive detail. Quite naturally, Carsten asked questions and- oh, how many questions he asked.

There was one tale he described with a sickening enthusiasm, where a small girl with auburn ringlets had left tracks of mud in General Hosh's living room when she was delivering orders from one of the soldier's stationed in her section of camp. Nero knew right off of the bat that something was horribly wrong when Bernd didn't strike her. He did nothing at all, as a matter of fact. No, "clean it up, _Saummench_" or threats to never do it again.

He didn't even warn her.

It was during the girl's trek down the slope towards the labour camp when Nero was whispered his instructions. Bernd appeared like a breeze, blowing the words into his ear, then leaving without a trace.

"_Was_?" Nero had breathed, stunned. She was only a girl. She didn't know any better. "But she's just a kid . . " Only his general saw no difference. To him, the girl was part of a race. A race with dirty blood coursing in her veins, and that her age made no difference.

It was with trembling fingers that Nero raised the sniper, a pained eye that he pressed against the scope. There she was, trotting along, her curls bouncing behind her. Her blue dress was not always this dirty and tattered. It was with an ache to the chest that he realised that he had seen her before, back when she had arrived with her family. This kid had loved ones, damn it. A mother and a father who try and dust off her clothing the best they can before sending her off to the brutal work she must do, a little brother who teases her when she grows tired.

Nero did not want to do it, mind you. The way her blood blossomed out of her back when he pulled the trigger haunted him in his dreams from that day on. When it came down to the line, however, it was either the girl, or Kyrie.

Nero had to do it. He _had_ to.

And so he committed murder again, and again, and again, for the sake of his sister whom he loved too much. He couldn't let her die, especially after all of the struggles they endured to survive. He simply _couldn't_.

In the midist of this torture, Nero found himself wondering if his true identity as a Jew has even been revealed to Carsten yet, that his only reason for taking the position of a _murderer_ was to protect the brown-haired girl who slaved herself in Bernd's household. Not for German glory. No, Nero could not find any glory there. Those people sipping champagne, they were not gods. They were madmen.

Suddenly a thought hit him. It struck him like a hammer, clearing his mind of everything but one: What was Kyrie doing in Bernd's restroom earlier today, anyhow? From what he has seen, the girl is almost always forbidden to leave the basement. Obviously, Nero had never particularly _fancied_ the idea, but it truly was for his sister's best. Jews were not supposed to have luxuries such as her - a bed, a decent meal, a room to herself. The very thought is nauseating in this household. If she were to be seen in the open, awkward questions would be sure to sprout and blossom into undesirable situations.

So why take the risk? Bernd owns a collection of housemaids - Nero constantly seems them fluttering about in their overly-short outfits, casting winks in Bernd's direction whenever he stalks past. At least one of them, surely, are able to scrub down a restroom! Why Kyrie? Why cast her neck on the line like that, especially with the knowledge that Nero is close by! That the only damned reason that his "best man" stays is for the sake of his sister's protection!

Suddenly, Nero saw. There was not even a warning. All of the pieces of the puzzle that have been scrambled in his brain seemed to have decided that right here, right now was the time to assemble themselves. As they fell into place, the picture grew clearer and his eyes grew larger. His pupils dilated. It all made sense: The teen's intrusion earlier that day. Kyrie's bruise, the way she cowered behind his fucking back. She didn't want her brother to see her because she was _ashamed_.

Nero felt his legs go weak. He leaned upon the edge for support. Abrupt flashes of memories were raping his mind, each being of General Hosh excusing himself from dinners, conversations and meetings for long lists of reasons. Why hadn't Nero realised before, _damn it_, when he would later see the man climbing up a set of stairs - the very steps leading to the basement.

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><p><strong>Well, there you have it. Now you know what Nero does and what his situation is. Man, this chapter is long, and if I were to carry on with my original plans, it would probably be twice the length it is now. I understand that this is a pretty awkward place to leave off, but if I didn't break it off here, god knows! I probably would have carried on into like chapter four or something, lol.<strong>

**Anyways, stay tuned! DANTE/NERO FANS: the two will meet in the next chapter! How, you ask? Well, you'll just have to wait and see. By the way, if you haven't noticed, I can be a real lazy-ass when it comes to updating. Even though I'm a lot more serious about it now that I was before (I literally put this chapter together in three days), I'm going to need some watchdogs hanging over my head to make sure I'm updating on time. If you're willing, I'll give you my tumblr because I'm on there 24/7. If you see me on there, I give you full permission to bitch at me until i get off. I'll probably hate you for like 5 minutes but then I'll adore you in the end. 3_3 ask for my url if you're interested.**

**Don't forget to review! I need all the inspiration I can get.**


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